Doctor Faustus walked through his study, pacing and looking at his jarred plant specimens. Broken roses, vines and thorny creatures populated the shelves of his study. For some reason, the doctor seems as if he’s caught lightning in a bottle. Suddenly, the side door opens, which brings his brisk pace to a controlled walk.
A female voice rang out in his head.
“You spend too much time working here, love.”
That “love” felt tacked on at the end, much like his horrid, simple life. Now, expressions of compassion felt like thrusts of a blade into his ventral area.
“My work is my first love. You came afterwards.”, the doctor remarked.
“You’re right. Just don’t lose yourself in it.”, she said before leaving silently.
“Lose myself”, he thought sarcastically. He had never felt so relieved via his hate for the world. He began pacing violently again.
“I am tired of love. Comfort has drained me. Where is the pure hatred of my youth? The one that drove my limitless passion.”, the doctor reflected.
His thoughts exploded in hatred against his conformist soul. The one whose limits he respected for so long. The thing he enjoyed for so long he saw as his cost to absolute freedom. He always did what was right, but the right left so much to be desired, to be experienced, to be understood.
He was upset with time. It seemed to constrain him. He was tired of time, so he escaped it by studying. And as he escaped time, he eventually found a more permanent escape through his studies. The principles he would find in his study often felt like they were permanent. And today he would enact a step that would make himself fully permanent in time.
He wanted to choose to go backwards and choose wrong. To choose debauchery and excess. TO indulge fully in the pleasures of the flesh and the brain. He wanted access to all of it. So he looked into the path of the Antichrist.
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